


Thousand Enemies

by angelkat



Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [6]
Category: Puss in Boots (2011)
Genre: 2011 movie canon, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21801301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelkat/pseuds/angelkat
Summary: Ahead his path are a thousand enemies, and he will trudge on./reposted Dec 15, 2019. not edited
Series: [collection] Rival Argentica (2014-2018) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570921
Kudos: 3





	Thousand Enemies

He yanked at the reins, and the stallion was forced to a sudden stop, mane flying when it sprang up to its legs in a tense whinny. When the stallion finally landed onto its legs, the flying dust and sand was gradually blown away by the wind. As so, Puss was a little relieved to finally be able to open his eyes without worrying about getting particles of it in them. But as the slowly-settling dust revealed him the place of his origin, the town he had once called home, the shallow, short-lived relief in his eyes immediately died.

His shoulders slumped, weight settling itself onto the tip of his wilting tail.

He did not know what this feeling was called. It was a feeling that resided in the pit of his stomach, like some thick, heavy chains were wrapped around his neck, tightening, tightening, and even though he wished he'd run out of breath and die, he'd continue to live through the torture and suffer it.

Yes. That was it.

It was a feeling of uncertainty.

What was he doing, standing here? What had he been thinking? He wasn't allowed to be here, and never will he be. He wanted to run away now. He wanted to turn back around and continue his nomadic living of rebellious adventuring and settling scores, and forget everything else. He wanted to kick his horse and swerve it away, then run, run, and run even farther away, just like he did the last time.

And the last time.

And the last time.

And the last time.

And…

…and the last time.

As the horse gradually took its steps, the sound of its hooves tapping against the ground seemed to echo throughout right into his ear. The painful seconds seemed to extend in lingering hours as he gently bobbed with each step of his walking stallion. At that moment, in the quiet, unmoving place where he stood, his mind was exploding in chaos, in confusion, in unanswerable questions, in extreme uncertainty.

Should he…?

Or should he not...?

What would be wiser?

…going in?

…or running away?

While the unrelenting debate kept his mind full of arguing non-existent voices, the horse slowly marched forward, trinkets chinking and dust blowing at its feet. As they approached, Puss' eyes were unconsciously drawn to the faded letters carved onto the gray, worn-out stone arch above, one paw placed over his eyes to shield them from the harsh glint of the yellow sun.

Here he was. He never thought he'd ever be back to where he came from. After all these years, finally…

…he got to be here once again.

San Ricardo.

Just the name made his fur rise to the ends. The mere mention of is hometown just unwantedly brought upon unpleasant memories flashing before his eyes, rising and sinking in black waters, resurfacing like a corpse buried deep inside his head that had suddenly come alive. He'd had the good times in this place, of course, but he couldn't help but feel like this was a nightmare—the black memories ravenously devouring the white. They rushed through his mind like a thousand pages in a slideshow, fast-forwarded from the very first moment he had gotten here to the last where he fled like a coward—

He pulled at the reins to stop the stallion, with a force that vehemently pushed away the memories, and the horse obediently obliged. His breath had hitched without him knowing it, and now that Puss was aware of how traumatic his experience here had been, his heartbeat had raced to the speed of a tornado. Puss raised his head, stared at the bridge, far ahead where it extended into the town he'd grown to love over the years. From out here in the distance, he could hear the faint chatters of the townspeople from down below, the comforting sound of the noisy marketplace, the busy buzzing of the people as they ran through their daily errands. Those were the sounds he'd grown to love to hear, those sounds that he'd actually missed hearing all this time without him even knowing.

A smile broke through his face as he relished the fleeting moment of reminiscence. He and his best friend used to wander around those very same markets, looking for the trouble they always found with the Comandante. His small smile widened. Oh, those were the good times.

_Good times…_

The smile immediately evaporated into the air, dissolving into a look of shame. Because, from out here, among the chatter and clutter of the town market, he thought that could almost hear his mama's heartbroken voice.

" _Pequeño…"_

His ears wilted, eyes bowing down, and his paws lowered their hold onto the reins.

" _I will make you proud, Mama."_

His grip tightened around the leash, one word faintly forming into the around the edge of his lips.

"Mama…"

She should be nothing but ashamed of him.

The sound of shaking, crumpled paper reached his ears, interrupting his thoughts. He turned his head to face the source of the sound, and stared at the lone, wanted poster that hung by the archway, trembling at the rough force of the wind.

…and the sight of the quavering image made him hesitate.

He could face fire-breathing dragons, outfox powerful witches, steal from heavily guarded castles, fight full grown men singlehandedly, con dozens of armored knights in one breath, and breezily flee from people with pitchforks and torches.

But he couldn't even face himself one-on-one in front of the mirror.

The irony of it was so laughable. He was too… _scared_ to face the mirror. No one knew about it, and no one would ever be able to guess it in a million years or more—or not _ever_. But in truth, in grave, unspoken truth, he hadn't looked into the mirror yet. Not since he had fled San Ricardo and never came back after seven years like the coward he was. And that was a whole thirty-five cat years.

He couldn't. Whenever a mirror was placed in front of him, he'd immediately turn away, because he just _couldn't_. Unbelievable, yes, but…understandable. Because how could he? How could he look into the mirror when all that's reflected back to him is a sour past? How could he look into the mirror, look straight, right into his eyes, when all he could see, when all he would _ever_ see, was a shattered image of a once honored hero, a vile, despicable, undefeated fiend, and a blundering coward cowering in fear?

Everybody else might grow skeptical once they heard this unknown fact from him. Because, come on! _Scared_ to face a mirror? _Really_? Puss in Boots? No one would believe it. _He_ couldn't even believe it himself. Because how in the world would he ever be able to maintain his charm if he hadn't even faced the mirror, not even once, right? But he guessed it was just a natural gift of his. That wasn't his fault.

He would laugh aloud right in that moment had the situation been not as heavy.

But how _couldn't_ he laugh aloud right then and there? He knew, deep inside, that he _deserved_ being laughed at for being such a coward that he was, for living in fear, for thinking so foolishly that he could run away forever.

He had never been so undecided before. Entering this town would be an act of bravery, of finally facing his greatest fear after all these years—but it also meant letting his past devour him. He didn't know what to do. What _was_ the right thing to do? Is the right thing to do also the same as the _good_ thing to do, or the _practical_ thing?

Face his past and let it devour him, just as it should have a long time ago?

Or run away from it and let it chase him forever?

What?

What?

_What?_

Puss in Boots was _never_ this undecided before. But then again…

He'd always thought that he feared nothing. He'd always _believed_ he feared nothing. Everyone knew Puss in Boots never feared anything.

And yet that was just a junk of self-exalting lies.

Because he feared bees. He feared roller coasters. He feared water, no matter how embarrassing it was to admit.

He feared friendship, he feared betrayal, and he feared getting hurt.

He feared _himself_.

Well, from whom _else_ would he run away from? Himself was the reason he got into this mess. Himself was the reason that he couldn't face himself _._ And _himself_ was the one and only reason that he ran away in the first place.

He ran away, thinking that if he ran fast enough, he could escape the fear that kept following him wherever he went, which was his own past, his own _self_.

What a coward, right?

But no. He _wasn't_ a coward. He _didn't_ fancy calling himself a coward. No one ever would. He desperately wanted to think, to feel, to _believe_ that he _wasn't_ a coward, by seizing all the chances he ever could to prove himself worthy _not_ be called a coward. So he couldn't face his past, fine. He'd just face every sort of danger in the world to show them all what a brave hero he was. He traveled, far and wide, searched for treasures that required unwavering bravery, sailed through dangerous, unheard of adventures, journeying through everywhere while assassinating dragons and monsters, ogres and golems, giants and witches, anything, anything, _anything_ at all—to prove himself, and to everybody else, that he was _not_ a coward.

That was how desperate he was.

His reputation, indeed, was not something someone could earn overnight. So one could just imagine that blissful feeling he had felt one time when he had overheard a villager whisper to his companion the words 'brave', 'daring', and 'fearless' to describe the Spaniard feline who had simply just passed by that day.

Being called a fearless gato…he almost cried of joy. (Almost.) _That_ was his reward for his tireless work.

But no matter how much he fed onto those praises, no matter how much he clung onto them to keep his sanity intact, no matter how much he _wanted_ to believe that he was, indeed, just as fearless as they all thought, that he'd already proven to everyone else that he was _not_ a coward a thousand times over…

…he hadn't yet succeeded in proving it to himself.

And there was only one way to succeed.

Standing just outside of the town he had once called his home, that wanted poster shaking as the wind passed by, Puss cannot help but feel…weak. Like a coward. He wanted to hit his head a million times over a table, hoping in vain that the action might help him escape all this. A coward, a coward, a _coward_.

Because why the hesitation? Why not just giddy up his horse and just get in? Why was he just standing there, doing nothing?

Was he really _that_ much of a coward?

Was he?

_Was he?_

If someone looked at the number of villains and beasts that Puss in Boots had slayed, defeated, or rightfully brought to jail, one would think he'd already probably faced all the monsters in the world.

But no. He wasn't _really_ trying to face all the dangers life might throw at him. He wasn't _really_ being the brave hero he desperately wanted to think he was. No, not _really_.

All this time, while facing all those monsters, he was actually running away from the _real_ monster—and unlike to the ways he was used to fight, it was someone he couldn't just defeat with a slash of his sword.

That monster was himself.

He'd always been able to run away. He did it so easily, just as easy as he did his breathing. But right now, one question heavily weighed him down, like a hand touching his shoulder to prevent him from going away.

… _why not now?_

Why not run away now, just like he did before, and the time before that, and the time before that, and the other time before that, just like he _always_ did, just like he always thought he'd ever do? Wasn't it so easy to run away? Why did it suddenly become so difficult to turn around now?

His paws tightened around the reins so hard his knuckles felt like bursting. He heaved a heavy breath, and let it out, closing his eyes while letting the shadow of his hat fall upon his face.

And then, Puss in Boots looked up, and set his face from undecided—

—to determined.

Not now. No running away this time. Not _now_ , because Kitty and Humpty are right inside this town, and they _needed_ him. Who knew what Jack and Jill are putting them through right now? He had no time to dwindle away with his own melodramatic dramatics.

So, he kicked his horse, and _finally_ entered San Ricardo with as much bravery and dignity as he could muster as if he was about to face a thousand enemies. Because, yes, in truth, he _would_ be facing a thousand enemies, just like he did all these years, only he wouldn't be using his sword. The only real weapon he should bring was courage and bravery, nothing else. Nothing else.

It would be against his code of honor not to do so.


End file.
